An Impossible Situation Continues
by Crimson and Purple
Summary: Carson and Lady Mary getting a little closer?
1. Chapter 1

_AN. I would like to thank all those who showed their interest and kindly reviewed or sent messages of encouragement to continue. As a result, An Impossible Situation_, _becomes an on-going story of several chapters._

An Impossible Situation Continues.

I do not think I have ever in my life experienced such fear and helplessness as I have in these recent dreadful days. The depths of my stupidity have tormented me day and night and worse I have been living in complete terror of my shame being exposed to the entire world. It is bad enough that unwillingly yet through outright necessity my utter helplessness forced me to involve my maid Anna, and my dear Mama in this dreadful mess. Consequently, it fully exposed the pair of them to the complete knowledge of my shameful, grubby exploit, and complicit in removing the evidence of my disgrace and thereby forced to carry the burden of this scandal of mine for the rest of their lives.

What a fool I have been. Though I would like to blame someone other than myself, I cannot. I must accept the consequences of my recklessness and deal with it.

Goodness knows what I was thinking. Heady with the attention I suppose from the exotic attaché from the Turkish embassy, Kamal Pamuk; my rather full of himself cousin, Matthew Crawley, and the honourable Evelyn Napier, son and heir to Viscount Branksome. I felt as though I were the honey pot and they the bees. Edith was positively writhing with envy at the attention I was receiving that evening from these handsome men, her expression sour, as though she were alternately chewing wasps or sucking lemons. I was enjoying myself immensely. However, Pamuk stole my full attention. He was undeniably handsome, though a little too fleshy-lipped and wide of mouth that possessed far too many teeth that was natural; he had the darkest of eyes and a mane of hair that was just shy of rakish. Though he was foreign, he neither looked nor sounded it, though his cologne could not completely disguise his fondness of garlic. He was bold and exciting and though his etiquette and manners were impeccable, I was soon to discover when alone with him that it was in fact a very thin veneer.

He possessed a passionate, arrogant confidence in himself that made him quite refreshingly daring. He was irresistibly captivating and exciting and it did not seem that any woman in the household was not completely unaffected by him. Yes, I did flirt with him, I am used to flirting with gentlemen, and I suppose I was showing off that it was I who had the sole attention of this dashing, romantic-looking, dark hero. I took it for granted I would be safe. That the entrenched custom of courteous polite manners would protect me when alone with Pamuk. How wrong I was.

At the time, it seemed reckless and exciting, wild even. With him bursting into my bedchamber late that night - I have still to discover how he knew which was my room - I was outraged at his audacity. Nevertheless, his daring soon thrilled my rebellious nature and I rapidly succumbed to his well-practised seduction techniques. With him wearing nothing other than a silk robe, he was soon kissing me in a way I have never been kissed before and - bizarrely, all I could think of was...Carson. I wanted to experience what I wanted from Carson - through Pamuk. I knew Carson's rigid sense of loyal duty was such he would rather fling himself off the roof of Downtown, than touch me in that way, let alone kiss me. I know he is very fond of me, he even admitted only a day or so ago that I was his favourite, yet I cannot envisage Carson ever having any physical desiresfor me as I have for him. The thought would not even enter his mind, nor would he let it. A butler, at least thirty years my senior, and I, the daughter to Lord and Lady Grantham. It would be utterly unthinkable to him. But the self-awareness of my body and sexuality having been unknowingly woken by Carson, was becoming more frustrating and urgent each day in my struggle to deny it. The reaction of my body when I was finally driven by an unrestrained need, led me to self-exploration and its overwhelmingly powerful conclusion resulted in making matters far worse, rather than better.

I am young, ripe, ready for the taking, and yet the man I desire and need, rules of society dictate I cannot have. It was little wonder I quickly succumbed to the dark-eyed, handsome Pamuk: my substitute Carson. But I was foolish. Foolish to think Pamuk could be Carson. The two men were completely different. Carson would not have thrown me to my bed and just simply sought his own pleasure. And it was his own pleasure - I think. Laying atop me as I struggled and tried to enjoy, tangled as I was in my long nightgown, he panted and slathered over me like an enthusiastic Isis for a matter of seconds. As he unfastened his robe and assuring me my virginity would remain intact for my future husband, he frantically rubbed a curiously hot and hard part of himself against me a few times before he cried out, his face contorting in pain, as a warm wetness suddenly spread upon my nightgown over my abdomen, and then he collapsed upon me.

At first I was shocked, confused and then became increasingly annoyed and disappointed. Was that it? I felt cheated, disillusioned and knew intuitively that there should have been more. My annoyance quickly evolved into anger as his heavy body lay still upon me, a dead weight. Then to my horror I quickly realised that is exactly what he was. Dead.

Thoughtless acts more often than not end in either tears or complete disaster, mine ended in both and the worst of it is it may never be over. The consequences of my irresponsibility will hang over me forever and could, were the scandal ever leaked, quite simply ruin me. Immediately I would become the social outcast, a leper, the family name would be dragged through the mud, and I would figure in social gossip for months; the object of ridicule, the butt of viscous dirty jokes, my undoing, my downfall, my destruction. As for the servants, oh what a meal they would make of it and Carson. I closed my eyes and pressed my hand to my aching forehead. Carson. All he knew was that a dignitary had inexplicably died of natural causes. It was strange that a man so young and apparently healthy could be struck with a heart attack, but life is so precarious. That was all Carson and everybody else knew, and I prayed that was all he would ever know.

I looked out from my bedroom window, at the serenity and beauty of the grounds. The acres of carefully manicured lawns, the swathes of majestic woodland, and beyond that, though out of sight from the house, the farmland, worked by our tenant farmers. If my scandal were to be exposed all this would be irrevocably damaged beyond any hope of repair. My family and myself would be the laughing stock of all society. My chances of being married would be completely lost. The humiliation my parents would have to endure would be unbearable, particularly if my disgrace were made known to any of the newspapers. Whilst aristocracy would often close ranks when there was the slightest whiff of scandal, with a scandal of this magnitude I know I would be standing alone. This was not a silly secret affair exposed; it was a dirty little one-night escapade that resulted in death.

Suddenly there was a gentle rapping at the door, and dabbing at my eyes I turned and called to enter. In walked Carson, as always fresh and immaculately dressed in his black, long tailed coat, his waistcoat and wing-tipped shirt brilliantly white as was his tie, his fine pinstripe trousers were pressed to perfection, and his black leather shoes were polished to an almost mirror like shine. His black hair, cut short with its narrow straight parting, was slicked back, the macassar oil making it shiny and flat upon his head. Carson simply radiated a natural refinement and he walked toward me with his arm outstretched, holding out an envelope. He came to a halt before me; his long, broad face seriously set as it was most times, his eyes concerned. He could see I had been crying.

"A letter has just arrived for you My Lady." He announced in his strong deep voice. "Anna was going to bring it to you but she has been waylaid."

I smiled distractedly and took the envelope from him. I really did not want Carson to see me like this. It was bad enough he found me in Pamuks room the evening after the dreadful event. Then he gave words of encouragement, completely oblivious of my disgrace, announcing I had the support of not only himself but also the entire household staff. Poor man, he was under the impression I was not only crying over the death of Pamuk but the continuing injustice over the entail.

"Oh Carson," I sobbed and to my utter surprise and delight he stepped forward closing the space between us, his arms enfolding me to him and immediately I feel encased in a sense of calm.

"My Lady," he murmured gently, placating, "You are much too hard on yourself."

I sob again thinking how I am deceiving this good and decent man. If he were to know what a slut I was, would he be holding and comforting me now? I feel his arms imperceptibly tighten and despite of, or perhaps because of my confused and vulnerable state, I welcomed the move, rather than question it. In actuality he was overstepping the mark, but what did I care. At this moment in time he is not one of the house staff, the butler of Downton Abbey, he is Carson, a dear loyal friend I have known all my life. Despite feeling so wretched, I am conscious of that familiar awakening, a response to his holding me, a need not just emotionally, but physically also. I want him. What on earth is the matter with me? Isn't my life complicated enough as it is?

In an act of impulsiveness driven by answering that need I put my arms about his big body at his waist and pull myself even tighter to him as though wishing to dissolve into his stout frame. I could sense by his sudden frozen posture that he was as taken aback with surprise and uncertainty by my action, as I was by my boldness during the depths of my misery right now. But Carson I know is my salvation, my rescue. His integrity, honour and sincerity would cleanse me of my filth.

Though his hold on me remains just as tight, I feel his posture relax and he is no longer feeling awkward by my sudden move. The side of my face resting against his solid chest I feel the cool smoothness of his jacket against my cheek and breathe deeply. Carson, unfortunately smelling faintly of carbolic soap - but what choice does house-staff have but the basics in anything their meagre wages could afford. Besides Carson was not a vain man, not for him expensive fancy smelling colognes.

"Unfortunate as it was with this poor man passing away; the doctor said he had a heart attack. He obviously had some defect of the heart, a weakness, and it was going to happen sooner rather than later."

"I know but..." I mumbled into his jacket.

"Now, now." He interrupted, his hold on me remaining tight. "Stop punishing yourself over something that was inevitable. To put it somewhat crudely my lady, his time was up."

I frowned and relaxed my hold on him. I felt his arms relax a little but he did not let go and I leaned back a fraction so that I could look up into his face. This is the closest, physically, I have ever been to Carson for many, many years, certainly since I was a child, and for a moment I was overwhelmed by him and those heavy features in his kind face. I had not realised until now just how large his high bridged nose was, how deep-set his beetle-black eyes were nor how heavy and dominant his thick black eyebrows were, or the thin, serious almost grim line of his mouth. I felt a tenderness bloom inside me and once again, those physical yearnings starting to ache for him. Yearnings that I had wanted to explore, and resulted in my downfall.

"What do you mean?" I queried.

I could see that his concerned eyes lightened, those heavy brows lifting slightly, and the ghost of a smile played about his mouth, softening his normally somber features.

"I mean that whether he was here, or at the Turkish embassy, or even sitting in his bath, his heart was going to give up sooner rather than later," he replied gently in that deep, no nonsense baritone. "It was, however, inconvenient that it had to happen here," he added dryly.

I could not help but smile at that wry sense of humour he would occasionally reveal and was rewarded by a smile in return.

"That's better Milady. Neither you, nor anyone else could have possibly altered that poor gentleman's fate. Nature had decided his time had come."

I quickly buried my face into his jacket again fearful he might read the guilt in my eyes. I couldn't help wonder what he would say if I admitted to perhaps having sped up nature's course for Pamuk. I squeezed myself to him tightly again, my mind mulling over what he said when suddenly I felt the strength in his arms increase and for a few infinitesimal seconds I was certain I felt the pressure of his face against the top of my head; and then it was gone. I stopped breathing, my heart hammering wildly in my chest. Had Carson just kissed me?

All of a sudden there was a brief knock on the door before it was opened and I heard Anna's voice.

"My Lady, I...oh..."

"Ah Anna." Replied Carson in his clear deep voice. I felt his arms slowly release me and he stepped back unhurriedly. "It's just as well you're here. Lady Mary as you can see is rather upset. Though I can provide the shoulder, I lack the delicacy. I think you are more qualified dealing with these sensitive matters."

"Yes Mr Carson."

I looked up at Carson and though his smile was both warm and gentle as he looked down at me, there was something in his eyes, but there so briefly, and just like the kiss, I thought I had imagined it. There was such an intensity, a smouldering heat that it shocked me. But as quickly as I saw it, it was gone. With his chin raised proudly, he once more was the poised and professionally strict and efficient Mr Carson, butler of Downton Abbey.

With a graceful inclination of his head, he excused himself and left the room, closing the door quietly behind himself.

"Mr Carson. He really is a big softie."chuckled Anna fondly.

I stared at the closed door, my heart pounding whilst experiencing for the first time in days an emotion far stronger than despair.

"Quite frankly Anna, I really do not know what I'd do without him." I murmured, more to myself than as a reply to my maid.


	2. Chapter 2

_AN. Thanks to those who have written. It is encouraging. This is my thrid attempt to post this chapter. Hope this works this time!_

Chapter 2

"I can see you are rather preoccupied, so I'll leave you to your thoughts."

I looked toward Mrs Hughes realising she had said something that required some form of an acknowledgement.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hughes," I apologised with sincerity. "It has been a rather long and shall I say - eventful day one way or another."

Mrs. Hughes chuckled softly, "Yes indeed it has; but all's well that ends well is what I say."

I frowned and looked at her, my expression obviously indicating I had absolutely no idea what she was referring too.

"My, my," she muttered, her expression and her soft, highland accent indicating a mild testiness at my lack of attention. "You really are lost in your thoughts. Well, if it is the saga of Thomas' implication that Mr. Bates was helping himself to the wine, well... it's all sorted now, and there's no need for you to brood over it. But I might add that Thomas is a real troublemaker and no mistake. He really has it in for poor Mr .Bates."

"Oh that," I dismissed with a wave of my hand, "I'd take Mr. Bates word over Thomas' any day, in fact I'd take anybody's word over Thomas; but the wine was missing, and I had no choice but to look into the matter; doubtful as I was the moment Thomas made the implication."

"Though I must say, Mr. Bates startling confession took me by surprise," she added, her slim brows rising. "What do you intend to do?"

"I will have to give it some serious consideration of course, and then inform his lordship obviously to make the final decision."

Whilst I welcomed the companionable silence that settled, Mrs Hughes did not.

"Well, if you're worrying as to who is helping themselves to the wine, I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of it sooner or later."

I could see that she was fishing for information. She knew full well my mind was elsewhere as I had been inattentive throughout most of our conversation this evening. However, regarding this particular matter that was concerning me, I had absolutely no intention of sharing it with her at all.

"Yes I am sure I shall." I replied somewhat curtly and stood up. It seemed Mrs. Hughes was in no hurry to leave and I felt rather churlish at the abrupt indication that I wished an end to our evening.

"Now I think it is time to retire, another long and busy day lies ahead." I added, hoping that by feigning tiredness it would be enough of an explanation for the shrewd Mrs. Hughes.

"Aye, sure enough." She sighed good naturedly, knowing for now she was defeated and that I would not relent. She stood and patted my arm affectionately and smiled warmly.

"Good night Mr. Carson."

"Good night Mrs. Hughes. Sleep well."

Leaving the room, she closed the door softly behind her and I felt a momentary twinge of guilt at the sudden termination of our evening; but she knows me well enough not to take umbrage. She is a dear friend and a very wise woman, and over the years our regard and respect toward each other has grown considerably. It would be true to state we have shared many confidences and concerns that we would not have shared with any other. She knows me well enough to accurately gauge my disposition, particularly if something troubles me. The information which I received a day ago from an acquaintance - valet to the Marquis of Flintshire, has been occupying my thoughts, and giving me great concern. It is a matter far too personal to me, and hurtful toward a friend I regard with great affection and sincerity that I cannot possibly share it with her. The scurrilous implications in this letter constantly vex me, and so concerned with the allegations and the damage it could wreak, I felt I had to do something. Initially I had hoped to pass the letter onto his lordship but the opportunity did not present itself; though I was successful in passing the missive to her ladyship to read.

I had expected an elegant display of dignified outrage, controlled indignation, but witnessed neither. Instead, for a moment, I believe I witnessed alarm, and it was that, that has made me - to my horror - contemplate whether there is any substance to what I could only initially believe was nothing more than a cruel, wicked lie that needed to be dealt with immediately. Her ladyship however, after reading the note, her composure restored, calmly handed it back to me, and dismissed it as nothing other than a vile piece of gossip, tittle-tattle, and not to be taken seriously, though she would look into the matter and put a stop to it. She added she was relieved I had not brought it to his lordships attention as he had enough serious issues to contend with without this added nonsense wasting his time. I was left feeing less than convinced. I was almost certain his lordship would very much like to know why his eldest daughter was the subject of such scandalous gossip regarding Mr. Pamuk and his sudden death.

The matter should have ended there and then. I had passed the information onto her ladyship. It was no longer my business or my concern; but I could not stop thinking about it. I could not even believe I was giving the slanderous information within this letter any credence. But, could it be true? Had Lady Mary been with this Mr. Pamuk in the true sense of the word? Was that the reason she appeared to be so inordinately upset? Even now, the letter having been in my possession for more than a day there remains a blinding anger that is so great I can taste it. It burns in my throat and chest; my head pounds with the suppressed fury. But is it all pure anger? Anger at what was written, and implied, most certainly. But there is also anger and disgust, at myself.

I am not one to fathom deeply into my feelings and emotions; however this note has forced me to realise I can no longer deny it, and must finally confront feelings that I have - until now that is, determinedly refused to admit its existence, for there is - God forgive me - the fury of jealousy.

Did the late Mr. Pamuk know Lady Mary in the true biblical sense? Did that Turk have carnal knowledge of her?

I have to confess, to my disgrace, that my regard toward Lady Mary has evolved, unknowingly yet imperceptibly, obviously, as she has grown from child to young woman. Though I may be getting on in years, I am still a man and have not yet lost the capacity to appreciate the gentle, fairer sex. A pretty face, a winning smile, the beauty of the soft female form, and I have inevitably noticed in the past few years how she has changed physically, as I have to admit to having noticed how all three girls have changed. However, unfortunately for Lady Mary, her figure has not quite bloomed as fully her sisters. As much as their elegant gowns and daywear have revealed, she has retained a slim, almost shapeless figure, much as in her former years, when she was that wilful wonderful creature who was always so full of questions and sought me out at all times to play, or confide in. Though she has grown taller, it is only her face that has matured from the chubby-cheeked scamp into that of a fine, sophisticated young lady, with elegant bone structure, skin pure and flawless and with eyes that are both intelligent and very often, mischievous. But my regard toward her goes beyond the mere physical. Whilst many consider her cold and often hardhearted, she is in fact very lonely and very vulnerable. She does possess kindness, and she has a heart most certainly, and it is not hard at all, just overly protected.

Her life, particularly recently, has not been easy. She has learned that her home, the whole estate of Downton and its fortune, upon her father's demise, is to be passed onto some unknown distant cousin, a middle-class lawyer based in Manchester, though what I have seen of him he strikes me as nothing other than a whey-faced boy still tied to his mother's apron strings. There are even suggestions that my Lord and Lady hope to make a match between them, thereby securing Lady Mary's future at Downton, though it is quite clear she has no regard toward the man she has been passed over for. I have to confess, since Lady Mary's first season when presented at court, a debutante, there has been a flock of potential suitors, and none of them in my opinion, worthy of her, not even - forgive me - the late Mr. Patrick. She needs a man who will let her wilfulness run so far, but not too far. She needs a man of strength emotionally as well as physically, and she will need a man who will more than satisfy her, physically.

I sat down heavily in my chair, and closed my eyes, the fingers of my right hand massaging the ache in my forehead in an attempt to relieve the pressure there. I gave up and sighed deeply, returning reluctantly to my unwanted thoughts, knowing they would not give me peace until I face them, accept them and then finally bury them deep.

I know I have always loved Lady Mary. My respect and high-regard toward her I would prefer to liken to that of a love of a classical, chivalrous nature; but when those feelings developed from a noble platonic love to a natural physical love, I cannot answer. All I do know is that my feelings toward her these recent years are at times entirely inappropriate. They are unwanted, uninvited but unavoidable as much as I try to deny them, and yet the more I refuse them the stronger they are.

That our differences in age, social standing and position in life are so great, such thoughts should not even exist in the first place. Would that I could dismiss it all as a foolish old man's fancy; an idle whim, but it is all too real, too strong and too powerful.

It is concerning me that I am struggling to suppress my true feelings toward her. I usually pride myself with possessing a strict code of decorum and self-discipline; but all too clearly, I recall when I recently took Lady Mary into my arms. I have not felt such deep emotion for more years than I can remember. My actions were inexcusable, disgraceful, but seeing her so heartbroken, so in need of tenderness, all decorum was lost, and to my joy, rather than her being disgusted or offended, she held me tightly to her. Those precious few seconds have remained with me; the feel of her body tightly against mine, pulling herself to me, has fused itself into my skin and into my soul.

I will not flatter myself to think she feels the same for me. I am not that vain. She needed a shoulder to cry on. Mine just happened to be there at that time. I overstepped my mark, and she had every right to complain. That she did not at least confirms she has retained her friendship toward me. I may have sat her on my lap when she was a child, but all physical contact ceased when her tuition from her governess ended and she was sent to private school, and then onto finishing school. With each return home at the holidays, she became more of the young lady and less of the child; and the innocent childish games, the visits to my pantry, the reading of favourite story books, a sympathetic cuddle after being reprimanded by her parents or a particularly vicious spat between her and Edith, even the endless questions all came to an end.

Recently, her cousin Matthew and his mother were invited to the house for dinner. I recall Lady Mary so elegantly describing a story she had been reading. It was obviously a poorly disguised analogy, a dig toward the boy regarding her circumstances - she can have an acid tongue when she chooses to, and she explained the story of Andromeda. That the father, King Cepheus decided the only way to placate the gods was to give up his eldest daughter in sacrifice to a hideous sea monster. So they chained her naked to a rock.

I closed my eyes again. The image since then wedged in my mind. I am burdened, not just mentally but physically also as I feel the familiar pleasurable ache and tightening within my groin, and much as I wrestled mentally to deny the visualisation, there was the Lady Mary, naked, her delicate body chained to the rock, the links pressing and marking her soft white flesh. Her wonderful dark hair wet and in disarray, in wild abandonment. Her body straining and writhing ineffectually trying to escape her bonds, the nipples on her small breasts erect and hard from the lashing cold of the relentless waves, her stomach, abdomen, pubic hair and legs, flecked and speckled glistening with the sea spray. It was without a doubt an erotic image, and I felt shameful even entertaining the thought.

My honour and integrity to the family I work for has been compromised with these revelations. My thoughts sicken and shame me, yet I cannot stop myself. I will, with all my power deny my feelings in her presence, but when I am alone, as now in my chambers, I feel I am that hideous old sea monster; she is sacrificed to me, and that it is my semen and not the sea spray that is upon, and within her body.


	3. Chapter 3

_For this chapter I have used a tiny, tiny fragment from Series 2 Episode 2 and tinkered with it. Downton purists may recognise it. Thanks as always to those who take the time to leave a message._

Chapter 3

_Where does the time go?_ An oft-used phrase, and never one quite as apt as of this moment with all the tasks that need to be done. Despite doctor's orders, this is the last place I should be - in my bed, brooding. Never in all my years at Downton have we been so short-staffed.

The cause? We are at war with Germany, and so it has been for almost three years. A terrible bloody war that's taken a dreadful toll on our country's men. The casualties, and loss of life are so far-reaching now, there is not one person who has been unaffected one way or another through the loss of a son, brother, husband or friend. The demand for more young men from all walks of life, and occupations, to fight, grows constantly. Even here at Downton, our staff has been reduced significantly as our brave young lads that once worked in the house or grounds are now fighting for King and country. William already enlisted and trained is ready to go. Even Thomas left for the Medical Corps. Though Thomas the man will not be missed, he is yet another member of staff less. Two footmen, gone.

Quite unexpectedly even Mr. Bates left, not for the war effort however, his disability makes him unfit to fight, but it has made us another man down, not to mention devastating poor Anna in the process. That left his lordship with me acting as his temporary valet until we recently acquired Mr. Lang. Funny chap, not quite sure if he's up to the task. He is a nervous wreck, a tragic casualty of the war, no visible scars, yet it is quite clear his mind is horribly damaged. Shell shock.

In a moment of desperation, I had him act as footman and wait at table this evening as the family had guests, and, is the reason why I am now here, in bed and told to rest. Dr Clarkson called it exhaustion. Exhaustion, my eye.

I feel useless. It is a disgrace to lie here, diagnosed with exhaustion, and to think of all those fighting in France -_ they_ know what exhaustion is. I would gladly be alongside them were it not for my age. Too old. So old it seems I am laid low by taking on a few extra tasks.

A knocking at my door gratefully interrupted my increasingly depressing musing. Before I had time to call to enter, to my astonishment and joy in walked Lady Mary, still in her elegant finery having obviously come straight to me after their interrupted dinner.

"May I come in?" She asked tentatively.

"That's very kind of you milady." I muttered feeling stupid and clumsy as I tried to haul my tired frame into an upright position. "Do you think you should?"

"Let's hope my reputation will survive it," she quipped as she entered the room closing the door behind her and grasped the chair beside my bureau, "and rest easy, please."

I felt despair that I was unable to retrieve the chair for her, but I felt too weak to move with any speed, and how could I let her see me fully in my pyjamas. The awkwardness and embarrassment of it was painful.

"I gather it isn't too serious?" She stated, smiling brightly as she settled herself into the chair she placed beside my bed.

"I have been very stupid milady." I dismissed with a wave of a hand and a sorry shake of my head. "I let myself get flustered. I regard that as highly unprofessional. It won't happen again."

"You mustn't be too hard on yourself," she said cheerily.

"I was particularly sorry to spoil things for Sir Richard, knowing he was a guest of yours." I added cautiously.

"Don't be. I think he found it all quite exciting."

"Oh."

I couldn't think what else to say. I know she confides in me and regards me as a confidante - from time to time. Yet, despite all the years I have known her, it is on occasion, very difficult to truly gauge Lady Mary's thoughts and feelings. She has become quite skilful at hiding her true emotions these recent years; yet despite this, I feel I can still read her, particularly when she is trying to mask the fact she is troubled or concerned.

"Will we be seeing a lot of him?" I added delicately.

"I don't know. Maybe," she shrugged elegantly. The smile was not convincing.

I had touched upon an awkward subject. I could see she did not want to be deliberately untruthful to me but it was clear she was uncomfortable discussing it.

"And Captain Crawley. Is he happy with the changes, so to speak?" I pursue a little further and her face becomes more of a frozen mask.

Though it pains me to speak of this man, I must. It means everything to me to know she is happy, and with whom she wants to be with. To ensure that, I will do all within my power to see she achieves that in whatever way I can.

I know I do not have much of a favourable opinion for Matthew Crawley but, over time, he has proved himself a fair man, he has tried his best to fit in, and even done the decent thing to see if there was any way the entail could be revoked and that Downton would pass to Lady Mary. Though the venture proved unsuccessful, it was still an honourable thing to do. From that time onward I began to suspect that Lady Mary's animosity began to lessen and she started to warm to him, realising he could be a friend, one that she might even grow to love, perhaps even marry. If so, through marriage, Downton would be hers, and all would be well. Though I can never make it known how much I love this young woman, I will do all that I possibly can to help her. She will always come first, over everyone else; her feelings, her emotions, her wellbeing.

But something happened, though I cannot fathom what exactly. So much has taken place since the garden party when Lord Grantham received that fateful telegram and announced we were at war with Germany. It was a terrible moment. Naturally, it cast a pall over the remainder of the afternoon, and once again, my self-restraint began to crumble, and I overstepped my position as butler with Lady Mary. She had wandered away from the garden party to a more remote part of the grounds. I had seen she'd had some sort of disagreement with Matthew Crawley minutes before, and I admit I followed her as much out of concern as the simple desire to chance upon a rare quiet moment alone with her. Discovering her so upset, once more she quite willingly let me hold her in my arms as she wept. If only I could hold her for reasons other than comforting her in her moments of sadness. But, what would I achieve admitting my feelings to her? To see the disgust on her face at my revelation would wound me deeply. That the love is now also physical and barely manageable would horrify her were she to know. To lose her trust and friendship, to lose everything gained over the years would be unbearable. It must be buried, no matter how much of a strain it can be. I think repression and frustration can also be added to Doctor Clarkson's diagnosis of exhaustion. Suppressing my feelings and need for her is gruelling, and now over the years, it is obviously taking its toll. But I rather that torment, than lose what I have with Lady Mary.

And so it was, on that glorious sunny afternoon when everyone's life changed, that was the last occasion I had those precious few moments completely alone with her. My days as always are busy, yet with the war they have become increasingly hectic and demanding, whilst Lady Mary often spends more and more time in London, to stay with her Aunt Rosamund. It is a relief in a way that I see so little of her, though it doesn't stop me thinking of her. Just recently after one of these trips to London, she has since become acquainted with some newspaper baron, Sir Richard Carlisle. Not that much is known of this self-made man, but I am convinced this relationship is more an act of desperation on Lady Mary's part, than through any true feelings of the heart. This man is powerful, rich, and therefore would make her future secure. Secure but loveless I feel. It is all a terrible waste and I sense this haste to see Lady Mary married is more to do with pressure from her parents and relatives.

"May I give you one piece of advice, milady?"

She remained silent but I knew full well she understood; that I was attempting to impart some sound common sense.

"Tell him what's in your heart. If you still love him, let him know. Then even if he's killed, and he may be, you won't be sorry. If you don't tell him, you could regret it all your life long."

I studied her features as she absorbed my words and I could see she wanted to speak about it but something seemed to be holding her back. Her face lit with an impish smile, her large soulful eyes suddenly full of mischief.

"And what about Miss Swire?" She quipped.

Miss Swire, the surprise fiancée of Captain Matthew. The young man had given up all hope of having any form of a relationship with Lady Mary and sought love elsewhere. He found it; it seems, with Miss Lavinia Swire, daughter of a London solicitor by all accounts.

"Miss Swire!" Disdain evident in my tone of voice, "As if any man in his right mind could prefer Miss Swire to you."

The admission was out before I could stop it, but it caused Lady Mary to smile and I felt rewarded for that. It was not often I saw her smile these days. But suddenly her face became very serious, intent, and placing a hand upon the bed, she raised herself from her chair and leant toward me when suddenly the door burst open. It surprised us both, and Lady Mary stood upright quickly and swung around to see Mrs. Hughes standing there, carrying a small tray. She looked astounded at seeing Lady Mary there.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, milady. I didn't know you were in here," apologised Mrs. Hughes.

"I was just going. Carson's been boosting my confidence."

I could see Lady Mary was feeling very awkward, guilty even, as though she were a naughty child discovered by her governess and was justifying her reasons for being here.

Oh Mrs. Hughes. Whilst I value your friendship, at this moment in time I feel nothing but irritation at your untimely intrusion. Was Lady Mary really leaning toward me at that moment? Or was it a foolish old man's hope that she may have been intending to plant a sympathetic, get-well-soon kiss on my forehead or cheek before she was going to leave? Thanks to Mrs. Hughes, I will never know.

As Lady Mary leaves and closes the door quietly behind her, I watch Mrs. Hughes as she places a small medicine bottle and a glass onto the bureau. I feel somewhat surly even though I know that she is only being kind and caring, and I have no right to be ungrateful.

"That is something I'd never have thought she was short of." She exclaimed wryly as she unfastened the top from the bottle.

I know she does not like Lady Mary at all, and we often have disagreements about her, but I thought it wise not to say anything. The way I was feeling right now I may well regret it, so I kept silent and just cast her a scornful look.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

I closed the door behind me and hurried away, my heart beating furiously. Whether it was from being startled by Mrs. Hughes sudden appearance, or the fact I was on the verge of acting on impulse, and about to kiss Carson.

I felt so charged with a strange exhilarating excitement that it made me feel quite light-headed. I couldn't help feeling annoyed by that woman, Mrs. Hughes. She has some mysterious knack of seeking out Carson whenever I am with him. She seems to disapprove of the fact I get along with him despite our social differences. I sincerely hope she has not sensed that my regard for Carson has grown into something more than friendship. To the best of my belief, I feel certain I have done my utmost to conceal that fact. Perhaps Mrs. Hughes has an eye for Carson. I am sure they do not have a relationship, Anna would have mentioned it if it were so; but that doesn't stop Mrs. Hughes hoping for such.

I couldn't help smiling to myself at the thought. I must admit, seeing Mrs. Hughes and Carson together on various occasions they do seem like an old married couple, but they are not, and after all these years if Carson were interested in her, I am sure he would have indicated some sort of matrimonial intentions by now. That Carson appears to have devoted his life to our family and home is very noble, but also very sad. I am certain he would make a loving and loyal husband, and a wonderful father, and I confess, the impossible truth is, I would happily be his wife and the mother of his children, were it not that Carson and I are bound by the archaic yet indissoluble principles of honourable duty. We both are inherently committed to the strict rules of social position, rank, conduct and etiquette, and of course, centuries old tradition. Having one rebel in the family is enough, dear Sybil; poor Papa would positively self-destruct if I were to announce I'd give up all for Carson!

A grand statement perhaps, but the events this evening made me realise the true depths of my feelings for him. I cannot begin to explain the strongest emotion when he almost collapsed in the dining room during dinner. Scared, upset, anxious; the words do not seem adequate.

By all appearances, it seemed Carson was in the throws of a heart attack, his face contorted in pain, his great body falling forward, like the felling of a mighty oak. Fortunately, the table stopped his fall completely. As we all hurried around him to help him, getting him seated, loosening his tie and collar, whilst Edith was summoned to telephone for Dr Clarkson, I felt quite simply, terrified, and I was struck quite forcefully during those frightening moments, how deeply I cared for him, and that my life would be nothing if I were to lose him.

I cannot imagine my life without Carson, and I knew that if he survived, then in some way I must do something about my feelings for him; that I must tell him. The notion seems positively absurd, but the years of my life are passing me by, and the man I know I love, need and want to be with, is here in this house with me. We cannot be man and wife, but we could endeavour to somehow work within our circumstances and discreetly - that is if Carson feels for me that way - enter into a loving relationship, that with all its difficulties and challenges would last our lifetimes. Knowing Carson however, he would be appalled by such an outrageous suggestion; he would think he would be disloyal to my parents, to granny, to Downton.

I closed the door to my bedroom, grateful for the escape. The moment Dr Clarkson announced his diagnosis that, thankfully, Carson had not suffered a heart attack, I made excuses to retire, although my true intention was to see him instead. The doctor's conclusion was that, quite simply, Carson is working much too hard, and though he has the constitution of an ox, even the strongest can be overworked and collapse. To Carson's credit, we were unaffected by the shortage of staff and completely unaware of the difficulties below stairs because everything has been running smoothly. So wrapped up in our own lives it did not occur to us who was doing the extra work of those who had left to go to war.

I tugged on the bell pull for Anna. I just wanted to get to bed. It has been quite a stressful day, having Sir Richard here and Matthew, with his fiancée, and then poor Carson's attack.

Dear Carson. He believes I love Matthew. As usual, I have made a mess of things. It is true I have become very fond of Matthew, and yes, I could have married him, for selfish reasons however, to keep Downton in the family. Though it seems coldly calculating and ruthless what choice does a woman like me have? And quite frankly choosing Matthew makes sense. We get along very well now. The trouble is, common sense dawned upon me too late. He proposed to me, and rather than giving an immediate reply, I waited, naturally. Coincidentally, it was at this time that, amazingly, Mama found herself to be pregnant. Matthew immediately suspected that my delay in giving him an answer was that I was waiting for the birth, that if the baby were a boy, he would be the heir to Downton, and not Matthew, and the need to marry Matthew would no longer be necessary. Though Matthew's suspicions were partially true, the actual reason for my delay was that I was still concerned about what had happened with Pamuk. I was and still am tortured with guilt and fear of it all being exposed. However though the news of Mama's pregnancy was a time of great joy, happiness and hope, tragedy once more called upon Downton, and poor Mama, due to a bad fall miscarried.

Like many young men, Matthew went to war, and during his time on leave, rather than visit us, he became acquainted with a young, quiet girl named Lavinia Swire and before we knew it, news reached us that the pair were engaged to be married. This information caused me great despair, for I was hoping to make amends with Matthew and start again. Now, all hopes of Downton being my home in the future is lost to Lavinia Swire.

I realised I had to move forward and somehow I find myself entangled with Sir Richard Carlisle. He has made it quite clear he wishes to marry me. Though I have not said no, I really do not want to. But what do I do? I am not getting any younger and I need to ensure the secure continuation of wealth and social standing that I have been accustomed too all my life.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. It was Anna to assist me for bed.

"What an evening," I announced. I didn't want Anna to sense what a turmoil my mind was in at the moment. "Poor Carson. What a relief to know he is going to be alright."

"Oh yes milady," replied Anna as she laid a fresh nightgown upon my bed and then began to unfasten my gown. "A relief indeed, Mrs. Hughes says he's much better already. I have a feeling she'll be having trouble keeping him in bed, despite doctors orders."

"Most probably." I smiled, so happy and relieved he was fine. "I looked in on him a moment ago."

I realised the mistake as soon as I said it. I saw Anna's expression of momentary surprise. There was no point back-peddling now, so I carried on regardless.

"He gave me some advice."

"Oh yes? Was it good advice?" She asked as she continued to unfasten the buttons on the back of my dress.

"It was about honesty. He thinks I should say what I really feel."

"Sounds a bit wild for Mr. Carson," chuckled Anna.

"Do you think he's right?" I pressed. I value Anna's opinions. Though there is not much difference in years between us, I feel Anna is far more mature than I am. Perhaps because her life has not been as sheltered as mine has, it makes her that much wiser.

"Well, they do say honesty is the best policy. And I think you regret being honest less often than you regret telling lies."

_...you regret being honest less often than you regret telling lies. Tell him what's in your heart. If you still love him, let him know. _

Anna's words and Carson's echoed in my head as I lay in bed. They both thought I was thinking about Matthew, when I was actually thinking of Carson. How can I tell Carson? How would he react? And even if the impossible happened and we had a relationship, how could we possibly conduct it privately, secretly?

Though my visit to Carson was purely innocent, having Mrs. Hughes burst in made me feel horribly guilty, as if I were doing something I ought not to be, but I knew it was guilt. Guilt that I feel more for Carson than I should.

I cannot deny that it was exciting, going into his room. I felt as though I were entering into forbidden territory, and in every sense it is. It is the house-staffs private quarters. Even though we are the owners of the house and pay their wages, it is with respect and courtesy to the staff that we show consideration for their privacy.

As if I needed reminding of the great divide between us, I was shocked by how small the room is and how very basic and utilitarian. Carson looked far too big to be comfortable in his narrow single bed; but this has been his room for more years than I know, and this is what he is used to. His belongings are few. A bureau and chair, a bedside table, with a lamp. A narrow single wardrobe, a comfortable though worn armchair, a small narrow shelf with several old books and a faded old rug on the floor beside the bed. Everything was neat, tidy and ordered; just as Carson, and I discovered with disappointment that even in bed he's buttoned up tightly in striped pyjamas.

I felt my face burn with embarrassment and desire as my thoughts turned to wonder what he looked like naked. It was well beyond my imagination. The only experience I have of male nudity is through art, sculpture, and a corpse, and naturally I did not study him.

I wondered what experience Carson has had with women. He doesn't appear to be intimidated by women, in fact, he's quite comfortable and relaxed in their presence. He is respectful, polite and courteous and he has no difficulties in communicating with them, which makes me feel his experience with women is fully comprehensive. Trying to imagine Carson as the romantic, or as the lover, again is something beyond my powers of invention. I do know from my own personal experiences with Carson is that he is kind, gentle, and considerate, and I suspect he would be the same in bed.

The aches and longings that are ever present for Carson grow rapidly as I lay here thinking of him. I have tried so hard to make a conscious effort to avoid him, in the hopes these feelings would eventually fade; trying to convince myself it is some silly infatuation that would evaporate if I adhered to the famous adage; out of sight out of mind. Needless to say, it didn't work and was more a case of, absence makes the heart grow fonder. So despite the lengthy stays in London and the social whirl, tired of meeting the endless number of those pretty, pretty aristocratic boys who think they are men, I remain emotionally bound to Carson.

The need to achieve some physical relief, as it always is when I am with, or even think about Carson, is strong, demanding, and I know I cannot continue like this. I must, and I will make my feelings known to him sooner rather than later, before I drive myself insane. The only problem is, choosing the appropriate time and place that I can do this.

Happily, as with all things that are meant to be, an opportunity presented itself far sooner than I expected.

###

**AN**. _To all those that have read and cast comments so far, a big thank you. A little warning however, as the next chapters will begin to fall into the, 'M' category, so those who are already uncomfortable with a Lady Mary/Carson relationship so far, had best go no further than this chapter. Obviously, this story is a forbidden pairing that will feature older man/young woman love/sexual situations. So, not wanting to offend anyone, I thought I'd issue the warning now. For those that approve, a big resounding YES would be helpful so I know I'm not disappointing everyone. It would be encouraging to know that the secret, Lady Mary/C Carson, shippers out there will be happy to read how the relationship evolves further, in its somewhat explicit yet discerning detail._


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